Till swollen with cunning, of a self-conceit,
His waxen wings did mount above his reach,
And, melting, heavens conspir'd his overthrow;
For, falling to a devilish exercise,
And glutted now with learning's golden gifts,
He surfeits upon cursed necromancy;
Nothing so sweet as magic is to him,
Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss:
And this the man that in his study sits.
: Dr. Faustus (Marlowe)

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Rain!

a sensation creeps up from behind me, it is soft and sensual, it nibbles my ear.

it whispers bottles of life into me, while i stand stone cold sober,looking out to the grey skies pouring rain.

this parched land quenches itself, when will i slake my thirst?instead i turn around to look at you.